


Finding the Perfect Distraction

by Karcrab



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cocaine, Death, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 12:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karcrab/pseuds/Karcrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a bit of a problem with cocaine. John gets a letter that his grandmother dies. Sherlock decides to quit, but needs a replacement for it's effects mentally so that he doesn't feel a need to get more of the stuff. John needs a distraction from his sadness and loneliness. Sex seems the proper answer to both of their dilemmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finding the Perfect Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for being kinda hard to follow, I wrote a lot of this while super tired.
> 
> I actually haven't written fanfiction since I was about 15. That means it's been 5 years since I've written something. Please give me some opinions!

The now-familiar slip of the white powder onto the small mirror he kept in the bottom drawer. He was a creature of habit when it came to his drugs; he was utterly meticulous. He cut the 3 lines, no longer than an inch in length each or a few millimeters in width, but enough to have his pupils wide as saucers, his mind racing at a comfortable pace for once in his life (ok, probably the thousandth time in his life but all of those times were with the assistance of cocaine or nicotine).

Sherlock finished the ritual, meticulously cleaning the mirror, licking the bag and cutting it to shreds in his trash bin, shreds upon shreds of his hidden, not-so-secret habit piled in the bottom of the bin, unbeknownst to his flat-mate, who even now could be heard pacing quietly in the living room. His small frame creaked the wood in the living room just a bit, but from where he sat Sherlock was calculating, as par usual. John was likely reading, he paced in that “3-paces this way, 3-paces back” method when he was reading. Particularly when reading the mail, and always when reading mail regarding bad news.

Sherlock emerged from his disheveled bedroom to see the war-worn man whose face he had grown so familiar pacing in the living room with the mail. John’s habits were even more familiar to Sherlock than the habits of strangers, who he was keen enough about anyway. It was commonplace in their relationship for Sherlock to _always_ guess right about John’s mood, and usually about what is wrong. There were small tears in his eyes, and Sherlock although more socially inept than most still knew to at least ask before saying aloud his morbid assumptions, “Are you alright, John?”

John’s eyes shot immediately to Sherlock’s, Sherlock’s penetrating eyes meeting John’s. John couldn’t help but think of his ice-colored eyes as an ice-pack, cold yet comforting as if to lessen his bruised soul. They averted their eyes after a long moment, and John went on, “Sherlock… it seems my grandmother has passed away quite suddenly. She has left me with her collection of books and journals, which is quite extensive, but she was cremated and there is to be no memorial service. She was a very private woman… the letter says they will ship them here…” he paused, wringing his hands around the letter which he apparently no longer cared for preserving. “How could she not even call…” he trailed off, obvious to Sherlock about his sister who he knew was in much closer physical proximity to the rest of his remaining small family. It was likely his sister knew she was close to passing, but did not call John in due to a foolish sibling quarrel. John looked hurt and infuriated.

Sherlock took a moment to calculate the appropriate words, as death was never more than an interesting peak of human life to him. However he was well aware that sympathy was commonplace when a death had occurred to a friend or loved one. His eyes carefully met John’s, “You know, it is unlikely your sister had any knowledge of this. If she had any say in it, she would’ve had some awful stuffy funeral and purposely not told you about it until afterward. I checked on my cell just now, the obituary confirms the letter. There was no service. Cause of death was a heart attack in her sleep,” his speech continued, methodical as always with just a brief pause, “my condolences.”

“Condolences. Right. Formalities.” Sherlock correctly read his tone immediately, the sharpened quick phrases he would slap at Sherlock in times of frustration. Sherlock immediately began to scan his face for confirmation, but was soon greeted with the closest teacup being thrown at his head. It smashed to the wall behind him, tainting the brick with remnants of tea.

“John, please. The tea cups are a set.”

“Sherlock, do you not understand that I just lost my _grandmother?_ I might not talk about my family much but it’s because the vast majority of them are DEAD and now so is she! My sister won’t even talk to me. I have no family left…” he was trailing off, his voice fading with his will to stand as he sunk to the plush recliner by the window.

“John,” Sherlock began, his baritone voice cut off immediately by John’s voice, choked with tears.

“Sherlock please, if you are going to bloody lecture me about how death is an inevitability and I should be glad for the lack of burden, you are going to get things heavier than a teacup thrown at your head. She was the only family I had left that I cared to speak to and who also cared to speak to me.” He held his fist to his mouth, the way he did when perturbed. Sherlock could tell the reality of the situation was sinking in for John, that all he had left was his alcoholic sister who despised him. “I… I have no family now… none at all.” And with that his voice dissolved into weeping more pitiful than Sherlock had ever heard from the war-veteran. This man had seen death countless times. He stared it in the face. He checked it for suspicious wounds.

And yet here this man was, curled in on himself shaking with silent tears and the occasional ugly sob. There were many moment with no words spoken.

“I realize that I have a brother that does seem to care, but he is just as distant to me. I know nothing of his personal taste. I have no desire to speak with him or spend time with him. We do not understand each other.” The great detective paused, gauging the reaction from John. He seemed fairly unchanged, his shoulders heaved less frequently but silent tears still poured from his closed eyes and dripped onto the fabric of the slightly opened button-up he was wearing, unable to change after work as he had come home to the letter.

“You are my family, John. The only family I care about.” Sherlock added carefully, quickly regretting his words for fear of the constant rejection that had plagued him a lifetime. His fingers twitched at the thought.

John hesitated. His eyes slowly tracing up to Sherlock, as if in disbelief. He narrowed his eyes. “You did cocaine again, didn’t you?” And with that Sherlock scoffed, unfortunately making the mistake of speaking about his personal life, which apparently John had begun to equate with his substance abuse. The detective turned abruptly as if to avoid eye contact. John was no Sherlock Holmes but it was easy to deduce what he had done from the saucers he held for eyes. He prayed no stray powder had appeared beneath his nostrils. Despite the lack of proof, anything Sherlock said regarding his personal life or emotions, which is not much, meant “drugs” to John for how infrequently it happened, and for the way his particular choice of drugs actually did make him. John was usually right.

“John. Please, now is not the time for my problems.” He said quietly, obviously embarrassed but also quite dismissive and serious in his intent. After all, this was an ongoing problem that was not life-threatening. John was in much greater need of the attention right now.

“Actually Sherlock, now is a great time for your problems. I realize you had no idea what had happened, as you’ve been in the room with me since the news, but do you _really_ have the audacity to attempt to lie to me? You don’t think of me as family. You are high and you are letting the drugs talk for you because you have no idea how to comfort me in this situation.”

After a moment to gather himself, Sherlock turned slowly, his too-wide and too-light eyes meeting John’s with all the ferocity of a waterfall and all the calm of a windless sea.

“John. I refuse to lie to you, and especially not straight to your face for purposes as nefarious as harming you.” He paused, calculating each word with the precision of a sharpened knife. “John. I have tried to think of the best way to explain this to you for quite some time. You are closer to me than anyone has ever come. You are the only person I have ever trusted to sleep in the same home as me with unlocked doors. When I am with you, I feel a reason to come home. My suicidal thoughts calm completely when I think of you, and of how I couldn’t harm you.” He swallowed heavily.

I could never harm you”. And with that the detective cleared his throat awkwardly as if he had been containing that in his throat for weeks and now that it was free of his windpipe he could speak clearly again.

John was nearly speechless. It was an absolute rarity for Sherlock to express any emotion at all, even when he was on cocaine, because there were times that he thought perhaps Sherlock was high, but couldn’t tell. He had begun to notice that every time he spoke about himself, or about anything regarding his feelings or personal thoughts, it was when he was high. John could tell from Sherlock’s quick speech and monotone, quiet voice that he had rehearsed it, making sure the words sounded right.

“Sherlock… that is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me. And that my friend, is exactly what you should say to someone who is hurting. ‘My condolences’ works best on strangers you don’t actually care about.” A small smile turned up the corner of John’s mouth.

John walked to his friend and slowly put his arms around him, pressing his face, damp with tears, to Sherlock’s carotid artery, feeling the pulse of the heart that so many people had told John didn’t exist. He had been warned about this man, that he was a machine, and a psychopath. John wasn’t sure how much of either of those statements was true, but what was true was that this was the most intimate thing that had ever happened to Sherlock, and that John never felt so intimate with a person during their first embrace.

Sherlock was unfamiliar with physical contact, especially in terms of friendly physical contact. His extent of experience for the matter was generally handshakes. He occasionally would place a hand on John’s shoulder when feeling brave and proud, but this was a first for him. John felt the awkwardness, and when they drew apart he said quietly to Sherlock, “You know friend, perhaps we should enroll you in a physical displays of affection class. You know, so that you know it’s appropriate to pat my back when my grandmother has died and I hug you, and not to pop a stiffie against me.”

Sherlock blushed violently, turning hurriedly and regretting already that he had chosen to spoke. John was different than all those girls and boys he had lured back to his home in years past, experimenting with them and his ability to manipulate their emotions with false words of affection. It all felt too natural, and Sherlock was most unfamiliar with emotions of any affectionate variety towards other humans. He was equally unfamiliar with sexual attraction to anyone at all. The Woman had come close to being sexually attractive enough to him to want to be with, and perhaps Moriarty could be sexually attractive in a sort of twisted way. What he felt towards John was unlike any of them. And as much as he wanted it to be simple, that he loved John as a brother who was far more similar and complimentary to him than his own. Sherlock knew this was not the true way he felt though. Brotherly love did not include the dead-grandmother hug erection. The things he felt for John emotionally were completely alien.

He wanted to protect John. He was afraid to lose him more than he had ever feared losing someone. John was someone who did not run when Sherlock became overcomplicated, or when he shut himself off from the world, or when he was in his bedroom “discreetly” shoving lines up his nose. (John always knew, because it was the only time he ever shut his door. Including while changing). John was accepting of all of his strange habits, his loudness at all hours of the day some days, and his silence for countless hours on others. John was malleable in the best of ways. He morphed to Sherlock. He was exactly what Sherlock needed a lover to be, as one of any other variety would be too inconvenient for Sherlock’s lifestyle for him to stick with them.

Erection forgotten, or perhaps ignored, John said to him quietly, his voice stammered with tears. “You know Sherlock… we really should figure out a better alternative to,” he air quoted, “’helping yourself think better with cocaine’. You know just as well as I do that cocaine is very dangerous, and if cut with something unhealthy could be the death of you, sooner or later. Regardless it is expensive and you can’t trust drug dealers to provide you with clean product.”

He was immediately cut off by a quick, snarky response. “John you know I am no fool. I test a few grains from each bag that I purchase in order to assure its chemical makeup is desirable. They fear me far more than I fear them. You know what is in the papers about me. You write a blog about me, for god’s sakes, John. They think I’m armed to the teeth always and ready to protect myself and my interests. I believe the man I obtain this from thinks that I am terrifying, as he always makes a point to take his own gun out of his pocket and set it on the table, offering for me to pat him down but never asking to pat me down.”

John sighed deeply. “Sherlock you know as well as I do that no excuse is good enough to excuse the frequent intake of cocaine in frightening quantities.”

The typical quick retort was thrown back at him, “John I am perfectly capable of judging the quantity and quality of the drugs I ingest. I know it is not safe, but neither is any of the things I do. Is it so hard to see that I care quite little for the continuity of my life as long as it is full and fulfilling?” Sherlock, erection-free, finally turned back around to look at John, who looked weary and defeated and obviously tired of arguing. “Joh-“ he began,

“No. Sherlock. Just stop it right now. I won’t talk about you and your drug addiction any longer. I need some time to myself if you don’t mind. You know, to mourn. That’s what people normally do when they lose someone they loved. And if you love me as you say you do… as family,” he quickly added, being careful to tread carefully on the subject of their shared sexual attraction. It was palpable, and they were both well aware of the sexual chemistry they shared, but for now they had neither spoken up about it. “Then you had better observe how I mourn, because I will be mourning much, much worse the day I lose you to something stupid like a poorly measured dose.”

John’s cheeks had flushed red with fury. He averted his eyes once more, picking up the paper although obviously not actually reading. Simply staring at the text as if it were an archaic indecipherable language. John murmured something along the effects of “God, why couldn’t I have said goodbye? I told her I loved her in my last letter at least… but she hadn’t phoned in a while. If only I’d known…” There was a twinge in Sherlock’s chest, and he could only describe it is horror as he realized that if he didn’t quit… and likely if he didn’t quit soon, John would be mourning his “loss” whether he was dead over this or not, because he wouldn’t wait around for him to die.

“John.” He began abruptly, loudly for the solemn moment.

“Yes?” he replied, sounding stand-offish as if he were expecting something to further agitate him or to send him back into a fit of tears where he would storm from the flat, only to spend another chaste night on a strange girl’s couch. Sherlock was well aware of how “well” his dating was going.

“I want to quit doing drugs. However I need to find something that helps to clear my mind while keeping it awake and focused. Those were the things I enjoyed most from the substance, and replacing them with something else seems to be the best method of coping with quitting things, in my experience.” He narrowed his eyes a bit, taking a nicotine patch to slap onto his arm at the very thought of it.

“But John listen to me. It is infrequent at best which I can eloquently describe how I am feeling on matters involving myself and personal relations so when I explain this, I need you to think deeply before responding. I don’t take well to being misinterpreted when I think these things over so carefully…” Sherlock went on, but John could tell something very strange was going on with Sherlock. He had been doing cocaine on-and-off for many years, but it was rare that he went on binders like he had the past few months. It had gone from a once a month thing, to once a week, to 3 times a week and now not a day passed where at least one powdered white line did not grace his fine porcelain nose.

“John. I told you I think of you as family. This is true. But I want you to understand my implications.” He eyed the man over, judging from his body language that he was already pretty sure of what Sherlock was about to tell him. “John… I believe I have become enamored with you. I’m sure you are as aware as I am that there is a certain amount of sexual tension between the two of us. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve felt sexual attraction to plenty of people before,” he lied, continuing seamlessly, “and noticed it being felt towards me many times as well. However, I _never_ wanted to act physically upon my desires. Not once in my entire life. Not until I met you.” A pale flush had crept its way across Sherlock’s aquiline cheekbones, brightening the contrast of his eyes even further. John avoided eye contact, unsure of what to say or think. He had seen this coming for quite some time, but had always thought he would be the one to have to bring it up first.

“John, you are the first person in the entirety of my lifetime who I have any even remote desire to offer myself physically to. And you are the first person who I have ever envisioned physically with me.” His voice quivered. John even arched an eyebrow in surprise. Sherlock seemed nervous. Nervous flirtation was not in Sherlock’s repertoire, and he had seen him act it out with countless girls and boys to get favors in terms of crime scenes, etc. This was no act. There was a steely seriousness to Sherlock’s eyes. His fists were drawn up to his sides. His body rigid. He was actually afraid of how John might respond, but his cheeks were flushed pink against the porcelain. There was a childish fear and bliss wrestling in his confused gaze.

John, still seated in the chair scooted forward to rest his elbows on the tops of his knees, cradling his hand in his palms as he looked inquisitively at Sherlock, doing his best with his own small talent of deduction to come to the conclusion that Sherlock had never confessed such emotions to anyone before, and were he not lying, as John expected he wasn’t, then he had never felt them before in his life. There was something strange in the slight upward curve of his lip. Nervous, but ready for an experiment. John had seen the look a thousand times, but it was nearly always over a dead body, bloodied instrument, abandoned and destroyed car, or over a strange book which had just provided him with the inspiration to learn.

John stuttered, unable to gather the words he wished for in an eloquent fashion.

“Sherlock… you know, I am not exactly the best person to teach you the proper way to love someone. I can be cruel. You know, I have had many girlfriends. They always leave me because I am too boring, too paranoid, too vacant; the list goes on and on, just refer to all of the little wrenches worked into my personality.” He stood from the chair, walking closely up to Sherlock so only a few inches remained to separate their warm breaths. “Sherlock if you want a chance to learn to love a person, I do believe that we could learn together. However you are going to have to understand that this is not all about you. If you expect me to stay with you, I expect respect, trust, and affection. Physical and emotional.”

The look on Sherlock’s face was disturbed. He was horrified.

“Sherlock, look at me” John persuaded, gently placing a hand on his friend and now possible-lover’s chin and gently guiding his face to face his own once more.

“Sherlock I think I feel similarly towards you. But I am absolutely horrified to give myself over to any person. Trust does not come easily to me, as I know it does not for you. Ever since the war I am terrified to become close to people, because it feels as though everyone I touch dies… and does so bloody, or at the very least too soon and without a goodbye”. His mind wandered back to his lost grandmother, too soon for this discussion. “But Sherlock… I need you to know that if you are confessing feelings romantically for me as well as sexually, I am much more ready to merge ourselves in sexual union than I am for emotional union”.

Sherlock looked shock at the bluntness of the statement. He knew that there was no way to read to deeply into this. John wanted to fall in love slowly, and it was possible that he could do so with Sherlock, hopefully teaching him the correct way to care about a person romantically without hurting them. However he also made it rather clear that sex was an option. And it was an option now.

Immediately a dark thought crept into the great detective’s mind. “You know John, the chemicals released in the mind during a cocaine high are the some of the same released during sex. Perhaps we’ve found more solutions than we think in this conversation”.

John raised an eyebrow, chuckling. “All of a sudden so brave about all this?” he cocked a head to the side, trying to read Sherlock’s intention. Trying to read if he actually wanted sex with him now, or if this was just a warning that he may want it at some point in the eventual future.

His question was answered as if Sherlock had read his mind.

Before he knew what was happening, he found his body pinned to the wall beside the windowseat. Sherlock, being quite a deal taller than John was stooping slightly to press their lips together a little too firmly. John could tell he was new to this, and did his best to soften his lips against his partner’s, kissing him as gently as he could, bringing his hands up to gently stroke his new lover’s face. His fingers gently traced his cheekbones, absorbing his bone structure as if he this would be his only chance to memorize the structure of his being. John was no stranger to the dance of sex, and particularly no stranger to people’s emotions getting the best of them during which. His mind and reasoning was quickly hazing over. John could tell from the way Sherlock kissed him that he was desperate for affection. Firm, needy but afraid to be overzealous. Sherlock was more than inexperienced, he was terrified.

John coolly took Sherlock’s pulse with the pinky pressed firmly to his neck as the others gently graze his face, fingers touching where there lips met from time to time. John was thrilled at the racing of his heart, feeling his own flutter at the thought. He had never noticed how romantically intimate he had wanted to be with Sherlock, immediately flashing to images of domestic bliss, of gentle kisses and introducing him to his work friends, to Molly and to confirm to their beloved landlady that they had, in fact, gotten serious.

Oh yes… getting serious.

The intensity of the kiss was growing exponentially, as one could expect would be the desperation of someone who had not so much as kissed a soul while they waited for the right person to come along to teach them correctly, surely yet gently, just as John did as he flipped the two of them around, pinning Sherlock to the wall instead this time, his fingers taking solace in the grip they found on the collar of his shirt where he held on for dear life, their tongues crashing against one another in wordless passion. They would break only briefly to gasp for air before their lips would crash together once more, hungrily pressing their lips to one another’s, John’s curious lick against Sherlock’s full lip, which he then tugged at gently with his teeth, pleased to feel Sherlock’s erection growing against him once more.

Sherlock mumbled gently against John’s lips, obviously un-wanting to break the kiss. “John… please. I have waited a lifetime for exactly you and for exactly this. I want this to be right.” He smiled that coy, seductive smile of his, and John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he dragged him closer to him, surprising him by shoving him suddenly backwards, against the doorframe which had balanced them, but he slid off of it and onto the window-seat below the curtains were drawn, so neither apparently had qualms with the neighbors possibly being able to see.

John was quickly unbuttoning his shirt a few buttons further and throwing his jacket aside quickly before beginning to make work of Sherlock’s own clothes. He was quickly stopped with a firm hand around the one which was unbuttoning his pants, and instead Sherlock stood gently, pressing his hands onto John’s shoulders as if to suggest he sit and enjoy the show.

John’s eyes narrowed in confusion, then widened again, his jaw slackening slightly in awe. John had already gotten to his scarf, but Sherlock was slowly, but quick enough to infer “I want this here and now”, beginning to strip. His strip tease was mild at best, but John cherished every moment. Sherlock was dramatic, sure, but he didn’t make a show of his body unless he truly wanted John to study it. And he did. He did not move like a girl on a pole, the kind which half aroused John and half made him want to retch.

Sherlock was a work of art. A man so beautiful he could have posed for Michelangelo and he would have cried with the joy of being able to preserve him. He was an alabaster god, clad in black crisp suits and illuminated with eyes that can analyze your entirety in the moment it takes for a single breath. John cherished this as if he were the most blessed man in the world. His eyes crossed every nook and cranny as they were exposed one by one, the lean muscle, the porcelain-pale flesh stretched over sloping, lanky bones and thin muscle. His stomach was a work of art, the gentle outline of his abdomen against the taught flesh of his stomach, his pale skin flushing with warmth as John dared to inch forward and drag him towards him by a front belt loop. Sherlock was flustered at best, and visibly unsure of how to proceed. John encouraged jokingly, “Aw Sherlock you were doing such a good job at getting me all worked up, don’t back out just because I’d like to take a look at what I’m about to have rammed inside of me.”

Sherlock cocked his head gently, as if unsure of the mechanics of homosexual sex, although John was sure that he was not because there was no way the genius a _ctually_ deemed _sex_ unimportant enough for “mental deletion”.

John stood, gently arching to place his lips just barely against the shell of Sherlock’s ear, whispering in the sexiest tone he could manage “I love watching you strip, Sherlock. You are a work of art mentally and physically. I would be honored for you to ravage me.” He paused, obviously embarrassed at how plainly he was putting this. “Please. I’ve waited probably nearly as long as you have, despite my foolish initial denial of the possibility. I would do anything to make my life more exciting. You were the excitement I needed to keep me alive. You literally revived me, Sherlock. I came out of that war a shell of the man I once was.”

He continued, “I was once too happy, Sherlock. So foolish. I took everything for granted, and I always assumed that I would join the service and become strong. I left so much weaker than I ever was before.” He made eye contact with his partner, “Sherlock. I was dying. And you were a miracle to happen to me. If ever I thought there a god in my life, it was when you asked me to join you at that first crime scene. I knew my life would have purpose once more. You gave me _purpose.”_ He swallowed roughly, taking a moment to process his thoughts. “Sherlock, I want nothing more than to be intimate with you. Emotionally too, but right now, physically.”

John sunk once more to his knees before the detective, unclasping his belt and removing it quickly before making fast work of buttons of his pants, pulling them away from his pale, sun-deprived flesh over thin hips. His fingers pressed gently against the bones, kissing awkwardly the line of his hip where it met with his lovely thighs. John literally could not understand how a man could be so gorgeous. Sherlock was so perfect he seemed to be made of clay, too good to be true, John thought.

“May I?” He asked, too gently as he hesitantly palmed Sherlock’s growing erection through the tightened fabric of his boxer-briefs. Their eyes met and John would swear there was true fire behind the ice of his eyes, like he had never seen before.

“Please.” Was all Sherlock could muster, his nerve endings exploding and his mind racing faster than imaginable.

John wordlessly pulled the remaining garment from his lover’s pale flesh, exposing him completely as he pushed Sherlock into the seat behind him, he too moved closer, tucking himself between Sherlock’s legs and gently but surely wrapping his hand around his length. He started a gentle rhythm, bringing himself up to stand again so that he had to rest a knee on the small space of open fabric beside Sherlock’s leg to keep himself up, he leaned onto the armrest, kissing at Sherlock’s neck and savoring in the sound of his breath quickening. John opened his eyes close to Sherlock’s neck, treasuring in the sight of his eyes squeezed shut, fingers clenching the armrest he was not sitting on.

“Sherlock, would you do the honors of getting me ready for this?” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear, a tad embarrassed but trying to be as sexy as one can be while asking to have your ass fingered.

“John, I would love to experiment in all ways possible with you. Tell me what to do.” He said, eyes narrow with desire and alive with all the curiosity of his scientific mind processing all of this as fast as possible.

John, much to Sherlock’s distaste removed his hand from his length, grabbing Sherlock’s dominant hand and slowly, sexily bringing his fingers to his lips, taking his index finger and sucking on it slowly, blinking slowly at Sherlock, his heart thudding with desire. He felt filthy in the best of ways with Sherlock’s fingers in his mouth. “Wait just a moment, Sherlock.” John said gently, kissing the side of his neck as he stood briefly, pulling his pants and boxers off. Sherlock’s eyes took over the entirety of the smaller man, memorizing every curve of flesh and every scar. He was handsome, war-worn and hardy. He looked like he’d seen some shit, a man who needs to be cared for.

Before he realized, John was over Sherlock again, this time with his knees on opposite sides of his detective. “Sherlock I need you to stretch me out before I can take you, that’s how these things work.” He said quietly.

Sherlock scoffed, “Do you think I don’t know this? I insist upon knowing pretty much all things knowable and so, even if I may not indulge frequently, I have observed the different varieties of pornography. I know how to make a man moan like a whore, even if I have yet to use the method myself, I am aware of what it is.”

John could do nothing but smile crookedly, Sherlock’s favorite smile of his.

“Sherlock, I’m going to hold you to that. The title of this experiment is as follows, ‘Make John Moan Like a Whore’”. John laughed against Sherlock’s lips, kissing him gently until they melded into something more passionate, their tongues meeting gently and kissing as if exploring one another. Sooner than John expected, Sherlock’s hands were making their way down his body, caressing him gently and holding him in all the best ways, his erection rutting dirtily against Sherlock’s abdomen as he kissed him passionately. Then suddenly Sherlock had the slick finger pressing inside of him, and John let out a hiss before breathing out sharply, pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s collarbone and forcing himself to gently work himself back onto his finger. He was going to need a lot more space than that if he were to take Sherlock, who John now knew was fairly well endowed.

Sherlock pressed gently in and out of John, fearful of harming him but careful to read his body language exactly to know when to move and when he was finally ready for a second finger, moaning quietly now as he rocked his hips gently back onto Sherlock’s fingers. The motion was driving Sherlock crazy, John’s flushed cheeks, eyes closed. Sherlock could swear no other human could compare.

After correct preparation, Sherlock gently kissed John on the mouth, “You’re positive you’re ready. There’s no going back after this.” He said, hesitantly. He was still waiting for John to walk out of the room, but instead he found John reaching down himself to steady Sherlock’s now flushed erection, pumped violently with blood and already aching for release. Sherlock had to mentally calm himself as John lowered himself onto Sherlock as he held onto him, his eyes glancing up to meet Sherlock’s gaze, and in a fashion fitting to the name of the study let out a gorgeous moan that sent chills down Sherlock’s spine.

John was gentle at first, holding tightly to Sherlock as he lowered himself slowly as he could, whimpering and breathing heavily against Sherlock’s pale exposed throat, clutching his fingernails into his shoulders when he finally got himself worked onto him so that there was nowhere left to go. They held the moment briefly, clinging to one another, panting in desperate need.

Then suddenly Sherlock’s hands wrapped gently around John, one on his hip and the other around John’s hardened cock. He tugged lovingly at him, looking into his eyes directly as he slowly but surely began to rock his hips, not moving too much. Just enough to make John wince at the new movement, but moan and buck his hips into Sherlock’s hand, and back onto his dick. Sherlock’s mind was racing faster than he had ever remembered it doing. A thousand things were processing but all he could really focus on was the bliss that was John, hot and tight wrapped around him and clinging to him with panting breaths. It was straight out of a fantasy.

Soon they had worked a gentle rhythm and were breathing in unison, clinging to each other’s flesh as they searched for purchase on bare backs. John opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, and was met with a rather devilish gaze. Suddenly Sherlock had his arms wrapped tightly around John and was actually _picking him up._ He pushed him down onto the larger sofa, with John on his back where Sherlock could really be in control. He immediately realized how much better he liked this as he grabbed John’s wrists with one hand pinning them above his head as he began to fuck him into the sofa. First it was intensely steady, sure and modest in pace. Then with a dragged out moan, Sherlock picked up the pace and John was begging for it, as was promised.

“Sherlock, please! I need this so badly, Sherlock… need you.” Sherlock could practically feel the ice that had filled his heart melting inside John and in the chemistry in their eye contact. “Oh, Sherlock please fuck me harder, I need it bad.” He groaned against Sherlock’s lips as he bent in to kiss him, buried deep inside of him.

Sherlock was quick to comply, he removed his hand from John’s hip and ground his hips into John’s as roughly as he could, rutting into him at a rather fast pace, seeing the change in John’s face as he rammed into his prostate with each thrust, and he began to work John’s erection in his hand in time with his thrusts, his long violinists fingers wrapped around his lover’s length and pulling him quickly to his finish, Sherlock was only seconds behind as John clenched around him tightly in his own release. Sherlock’s breath was drawn ragged from his chest as John clung to him, and it took only a few more thrusts before he too lost himself. Satiated, he pulled himself from John and actually took his hand, pulling him up with him with only mild complaints of, “Sherlock I can barely walk you just destroyed me from the inside” which amused Sherlock.

“That wasn’t what you were moaning a few minutes ago, plenty loud enough for Mrs. Hudson to hear.” A small smile turned the corner of Sherlock’s lips and he pulled John behind him into his bedroom. The mattress was large and plush, a necessity with all of Sherlock’s many assorted problems with sleeping and relaxation.

Sherlock crawled under the covers, motioning for John to do the same. John walked around the bed, pulling the deep red comforter and sheets about himself as well as Sherlock. Their bodies, practically magnetized, were intertwined within minutes and the pair was asleep in only a few minutes.

For the first time in years Sherlock Holmes fell asleep in less than an hour. Curled up with John Watson, his new lover and only friend. The two were an undeniable match. Both were a complete wreck, and both were completely in need of something life-changing to save them. They had yet to realize it, but in each other they had found the person to change their life around and make them a better person, to complete them and to stand by their side until the end. They both dreamed peacefully for once. 


End file.
